Wednesday, 16 March 2011
07:11:37 AM (GMT)
One tome in particular caught my interest. It was enormous and completely black, its
cover tattered and worn. Reaching for it, I pulled it out of the shelf to read its
title – yet nothing was written on the cover. A little disappointed, I opened the
book, flipping through the yellowing pages. I half-expected it to be some kind of
magic novel that would transport me to another dimension – or perhaps bring out
characters to my world, but it turned out to be a very boring ornithology book.
“Guess I won’t be having the Narnia experience today, huh.” I murmured to
myself, somewhat disheartened.
Ah, perhaps I should explain the situation. Stacking the new order of books at my
fantastic grandmother's library seems like an ideal way to spend a Saturday
afternoon, particularly for those who, like myself, dream of becoming a librarian.
However, today I was extremely bored with the tasks, and it did not help in the least
that the library was absolutely untenanted save for myself. I reached for another
book out of the delivery box, which resembled more a weather-beaten notebook than a
work of literature. Allowing my curiosity to get the better of me, I pushed a strand
of blonde hair behind one of the arms of my glasses, and opened the book. As if I
were in a trance, I began silently mouthing the opening words: Allow me, if you
will, to help you embark upon this misadventure of yours.
Reader, if I've ever made a more ridiculous, stupid, stupidly ridiculous,
ridiculously stupid mistake in my fourteen years of life, I fail to remember it.
This is the story of the terrible events caused by that mistake.
Last edited: 16 March 2011